


apis mellifera

by jazztrousers



Series: 221-Bea (apis mellifera-verse) [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Case Fic, Established Relationship, M/M, Parenthood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-24
Updated: 2013-03-09
Packaged: 2017-12-03 11:47:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 16,384
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/697923
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jazztrousers/pseuds/jazztrousers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and John's new case is the mysterious suspected murder of a single mother. Her five year old daughter, Bea, is the only witness. Bea takes a shine to John, and inexplicably, Sherlock. "The Curious Case of how John and Sherlock Became Parents", if you will.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Post-Reichenbach, established John/Sherlock.

John is having a nice dream about sea lions. He’s lying on a craggy beach in Wales, somewhere his parents once took him when he was a boy. The sand is soft and slippery and there are sea lions all around, barking and nosing at him where he lies in the sand, listening to the soft whoosh of the tide.

In and out, the sea washes in and out and the sea lions nudge at his neck, making their funny noise in his ears.

_John. John. John._

One of them bites him, just under his adam’s apple. He smiles, it tickles. Then there is a large, warm hand on his belly.

_John. Wake up, John._

John opens his eyes and the sea lions and the sea and the sand are gone. Instead the ceiling of his bedroom and odd tufts of black hair dance in front of his eyes, but there’s still a wet mouth biting at his neck and a hand on his belly.

“Don’t molest me in my sleep please, Sherlock.” He grouses, voice thick with sleep.

 “Lestrade called. We have a case. Locked room murder. Get up this instant and maybe I’ll do something nice for you.”

Then the nibbling teeth and soft lips and warm hands are gone. He hears the rustle of Sherlock dressing himself and John rubs his eyes, already feeling more awake. He is excited. A case.

“What is this something nice you’re going to do for me?” John ventures, wriggling out of his pyjamas.

Sherlock turns from buttoning his shirt- diesel grey, slim fitting _, mmm_ , John thinks, mind still half-asleep and primitive- and grins one of his ‘child on Christmas morning with a fresh corpse to play with’ grins.

“You get to watch me being brilliant. Isn’t that enough?”

John opens the top drawer of his dresser and selects a clean pair of underwear.

“Shag later, too.”

It’s a great testament to how well he knows this man, because when Sherlock groans and rolls his eyes like a teenager, John doesn’t miss the fondness behind it. The smile that doesn’t quite show, but is still there.

“Yes, alright, shag later too.”

 

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“Knew you’d like this one, locked room murder and all that,” Lestrade is saying. They’re in a small, dingy flat just outside of South London. Bad area, bad estate, John is from fairly humble beginnings himself, but if he had a car, he wouldn’t leave it parked around here, let’s just say that much. Sherlock breezes through the flat, narrowed eyes raking over every point of entry, piece of furniture and god knows what else in the place. In all fairness, there isn’t much. An old, dirty sofa, a mini-fridge, an empty wardrobe, and two mattresses on the bare wooden floor.

“Victim's 27 years old, regular drug user, died of asphyxiation. Markings on her neck point to strangulation, but they're old. A week old at least.” Lestrade continues.

“Yes, I saw the body.” Sherlock says with some impatience. When exactly had he seen the body? They’ve only just arrived at the scene and- yes, of course, Molly probably sent him a picture or something while John was still sleeping. Didn’t even think to show him, or ask, I don’t know, a _doctor’s_ opinion.

“Hands are large, a man's, either boyfriend, dealer or pimp, or possibly all three. No signs of forced entry... but the flat's been searched.”

That surprises John. There’s nothing _to_ search in here, apart from a few piles of post, mostly junk mail and a few nasty looking letters from the benefits office on the floor by the door- _victim’s unemployed_ , _obviously_. How can Sherlock tell that the place has been searched when it’s already in the most meagre kind of disarray anyway?

It’s only then that John even notices two uniformed officers talking to a small child in the corner of the room. Roughly five years old, dirty clothes – _that’s why two mattresses, of course_ – staring blankly ahead and clutching the orange blanket swathed around her. The victim’s daughter.

John feels a wave of judgemental anger swell in his chest before he can squash it back down. _Imagine keeping a child in a place like this_. Remembering to remain detatched, which Sherlock is having no problems doing, he seems to be examining the doorframe, he turns to Lestrade and asks,

“What’s her story? Daughter?”

Greg looks weary, this type of neglect is probably nothing new to him but it must still rattle him. Children have this way of making things so much more painful with their innocence.

“Found her in a wardrobe, hiding. We think she's the daughter, yeah. She isn't saying anything.”

Sherlock abruptly stands up straight from where he had been kneeling, scrutinising the grainy wood. His eyes are wide and glittering, and it makes John _very_ nervous.

“She probably saw what happened. Maybe the killer was looking for the child and lashed out when the woman wouldn't tell him where she was- he's the father, or could be.” He stops his giddy theorizing to train his gaze onto the little girl.

“She probably saw her mother die, let me-“ and that’s as far as John lets him get.

“ _No_ , no you're not going to talk to her. I will. I've seen you try to get information from children. The last thing that little girl needs is for someone to be brutally honest with her.”

“Thank you, John. Sherlock, you aren’t talking to her.” Lestrade immediately agrees.

Pale eyes harden on both of them, before Sherlock just… shrugs.

“Fine.” His tone is light and neutral.

That’s it, apparently. Perhaps Sherlock knew they were going to say that, and he had already resigned himself before he even asked. Either way, John is grateful that there is, for the time being, no foot stomping or shouting as Sherlock turns his attention elsewhere. He meanders seemingly without direction around the flat, one hand dancing and wavering in front of him, as if trying to conjure an object out of thin air.

He crouches down again next to one of the mattresses, and runs a finger along its underside, and then roughly five seconds later, he is handing a small brown block of what is probably heroin to Lestrade.

John’s impressed that Sherlock was able to divine where the woman stashed her drugs with such accuracy, and then wonders if this is down to experience. Experience of crime scenes that look just like this one, or hiding drugs of his own? Maybe both. Lestrade has one of the officers bag it up.

“Get that down to forensics, let's rule out an overdose.” Sherlock says imperiously, and Lestrade nods. The officer scuttles downstairs to where there are more police cars waiting outside the block of flats.

Making his way over to the little girl, John asks the remaining police officer, a woman in her early thirties, if he can speak to the child. She nods and excuses herself, tossing a strange glance at Sherlock who is now chipping away at a window pane with a pocket knife and collecting the splinters of painted wood in a small evidence bag. Clearly she’s never worked with him before.

John kneels down to eye height and smiles at the little girl. Her eyes are watery blue and she looks a bit underfed, but basically healthy.

“Bit of an odd one, isn’t he?” He says, nodding at his partner at the window. John’s experience in treating sick children tells him that it’s best to try and get a laugh out of them to put them at ease.

She looks up at him and tries to frown. “Who’re you?” she demands, but her voice quavers.

“I’m John, and that funny man over there is Sherlock. What’s your name?”

“B-Bea.” A sniffle, then, “are you Mum’s doctor?”

John thinks he should probably have realised that the police would have told Bea about him, and more importantly, Sherlock coming to the flat. They probably would have mentioned he was a doctor in the hopes of reassuring her. He sighs.

“Bea? That's a lovely name. No, but I am a doctor. An army doctor. I don't think I would be any good at looking after your mum.”

“They said she isn’t coming back.” Bea mumbles, and looks down at her shoes.

John doesn’t know what to say to that. After a long pause, he decides on, “No, I’m afraid not.”

Bea just nods. She’s very brave, or possibly still in shock, John thinks. Maybe she doesn’t really understand what’s going on, that’s a third possibility.

“He doesn’t look like a policeman.” She asserts suddenly, and it takes John a moment to realise she is talking about Sherlock. He’s still swishing about the flat, taking samples here and there and generally looking gleeful.

“No, he’s not.” John explains. “He’s a special detective who helps the police. He’s a genius, if you can believe it.”

Bea’s eyes are wide. “No way.” She scoffs, dismissively.

“I know, he doesn’t look it, but he knows almost everything. He can practically read minds.”

Being five years old, Bea looks rather impressed. The worst part is, John isn’t really exaggerating that much.

“He wanted to talk to you, but I thought I’d ask you first. Do you want to speak to him?”

She nods fervently, and this is almost definitely a terrible idea. Still, John will be there to drag Sherlock away as soon as he says the wrong thing.

Waving Sherlock over, John’s estimate is about ten seconds.

Lestrade’s is even less. “Fantastic. Screaming child in three, two…”

Sherlock rushes over excitedly, and deposits himself on the floor cross-legged in front of Bea. It’s actually quite a good start, he has this tendency to loom over bereaved witnesses in a way that is not at all comforting.

Before Sherlock can open his mouth, John whispers to Bea, “He can be a bit rude sometimes, he can’t really help it. If he upsets you, you can tell him he’s being mean. It helps him learn.”

Then, he takes a step back, and lets nature take its course. Cruel, violent nature, where lions rip antelopes to pieces in front of their young.

“Hello. Can I ask you some questions about your mother?” Sherlock asks, looking up intently at Bea.

“Okay.” She agrees. “But no being mean. John said.”

John chuckles under his breath. Bea’s bossy nature will probably help her in times to come, it probably helped her survive with a drug-addled unfit mother. Then John remembers things he’s heard about children who go into care and he really hopes Bea will keep her bossiness. It is probably the only thing that will help her stay afloat.

John allows Sherlock his space as he talks to Bea, but never steps far enough away that he couldn’t yank the back of Sherlock’s collar to send him tumbling backwards onto the floor if needs be.

However, he finds that he doesn’t need to intervene. Sherlock asks simple, direct questions, and Bea gives simple, direct answers.  It is quickly ascertained that Bea often hid in the wardrobe when her mother was being scary or loud, and sometimes would lie down and not move for a while. None of this comes as a great surprise, it all fits with the profile of an addict.

As for the culprit, Sherlock is able to get very little useful information. The victim, who John learns is named Natalie and feels bad for not finding out earlier, had many ‘boyfriends’ and Bea does not know who her father is. She liked a man named Simon in particular, but it’s been some time since he’s visited. She never saw any of the male visitors to the house hurt her mother, but that is probably due to her hiding in the wardrobe and covering her ears.

Then, Lestrade comes over looking grave. Sherlock gets to his feet.

“Social services are here, I take it.”

“Sorry, lads. Held them off as long as I could.”

Sherlock thanks Bea for her time as if she was a fellow adult, and then he is gone.

Bea starts to cry when a man from social services tells her that she has to leave.

“It’s my house!” she shouts, but it is no use.

John, for no real reason he can think of, (and he is grateful Sherlock is probably already in a taxi either to the morgue or home to examine his samples and is not there to witness it and be critical of John’s emotiveness) gives Bea a hug.

“It was lovely to meet you, Bea. You've been really good, keep it up and you'll get along fine.”

She clings to him and cries harder. “I don’t wanna go to a new home...”

“I’ll come and visit you, how about that?” John is kicking himself but he can’t stop. Maybe Sherlock is right, maybe it’s easier to just not feel things. Feelings make you do idiotic things, make stupid promises to children you’ve known less than an hour.

Bea nods, and then she is taken away.

When John stands up to leave, his left hand is shaking. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I forgot to mention that this story would not exist if it were not for the inspiration of [Berrychi84](http://http://archiveofourown.org/users/Berrychi84). Her John is what made me want to write this story. Thank you, love.

The next morning, John wakes at around 9 and finds himself alone in bed. He isn’t terribly surprised, the atmosphere in the flat after the crime scene had been… strained, to say the least.

Sherlock had been ranting and raving and banging things because the heroin he had found inside the victim’s mattress had been impounded at Scotland Yard’s laboratory until the _idiot_ forensic team were quite finished putting their _idiot_ microbes all over it which meant that Sherlock couldn’t continue pursuing any of his theories about Natalie’s death until those _idiots_ saw fit to let him have a look at the drugs. Because they were idiots, imbeciles, Neanderthals, and so on and so forth.

John was angry about Bea. That was it. He was angry at the government system for children who have nothing to begin with, and no-one to turn to. He kept starting to say, “I could…” and then couldn’t finish. It was stupid of him to want to take care of Bea, she was just a child at a crime scene, there had been children like her before and there undoubtedly would be again. But it still hurt.

Eventually this had all boiled over into the two being angry at eachother, and then Sherlock tackled John onto the living room floor, and John bit Sherlock’s shoulder until it bled, and for about fifteen minutes everyone felt better about things. Then, pulling up his trousers from where they were around his thighs, Sherlock had muttered, “I bet they’re contaminating it, it’ll be useless by the time it gets to me…” and John had stopped trying to find his boxers to complain about how the conditions in a foster home were probably just as filthy as the flat Bea had lived in with her mother, and the whole ugly cycle of shouting started all over again until Mrs Hudson started banging on the ceiling.

So, it’s a great surprise when John finds Sherlock fully dressed- shoes, coat and scarf et all- sitting in the living room at 10.15.

“I hope you don’t mind me joining you.” He says by way of greeting, and it isn’t a question.

“You don’t even know where I’m going.” John replies, putting on his shoes.

“You’re going to the care home to see Bea. I’d like to come with you.”

John is about to ask how Sherlock knew that, but it probably wasn’t a difficult leap seeing as he had spent virtually all evening worrying out loud about Bea. He thought Sherlock wasn’t listening, but apparently he should have known better than to think anything he says goes unnoticed.

“Alright.” John agrees. “But you’ve got to behave yourself, okay?”

Sherlock looks away haughtily, as if offended at the implication. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, I was perfectly nice to her yesterday.”

That, admittedly, was true. Yesterday was possibly the closest thing to compassion John had ever seen Sherlock display when talking to a person whose loved one had been recently murdered. Still, she is the only witness, Sherlock is probably trying to maintain good relations in the interests of the case. It can’t be anything other than that, it isn’t possible.

Rising to his feet, John nods. “Yeah, I suppose you were. So, keep it up.” He smiles. “How’s your shoulder?”

Sherlock raises an eyebrow and looks vaguely smug. “I’ve got another.”

A hot shudder runs through John’s body, and for a moment he almost forgets where they’re going.

 

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The foster home is, to John’s strange annoyance, actually quite nice. It’s a semi-detatched house in Belsize Park, watched over by a smiley woman with earthy-looking jewellery named Katherine ( _early forties, divorced, previously a journalist, ex-husband was abusive_ , Sherlock supplies before being elbowed in the ribs on doctor’s orders) who makes them peppermint tea upon their arrival.

John learns that it’s what’s called an emergency care home, open to new children twenty-four hours a day, and that Bea will probably be transferred somewhere else once the investigation is closed.

Bea is pleased to see both of them, and John can’t suppress the leap of joy his heart makes as she clatters through the house to greet them. She has a battered-looking picture book tucked under one arm and is wearing the same clothes she had on yesterday, but they’ve been washed.

“Hi John and Sherlock.” She grins wide at them both.

“Hey, kiddo.” John replies warmly, and crouches down to indulge in another hug. “How are you doing?”

“S’alright.” Bea shrugs, looking around the house. “Wanna see my room?”

Bea shares a bedroom with about seven other children, judging by the bunk beds and clothes and toys strewn about the room. John perches at the foot of a bed, and Sherlock hovers in the doorway.

“So it’s okay here?” John asks again. “Everyone’s nice to you?”

She looks away, and fiddles with the corner of the book that is still tightly clamped under her arm. That’s a no, then.

“Is that a favourite of yours?” Sherlock suddenly asks, taking a few steps forward and nodding at the book.

Bea’s eyes suddenly light up. “Oh, yeah!” she chirps, and shows them both the cover. It’s titled ‘ _The Very Busy Bee’_ , and has a large illustration of a fat bumblebee on the cover.

John inwardly sighs, _of course, Sherlock and his bizarre fascination with bees_.

“You like bees?” He is asking her, taking a seat next to John on the bed.

“Yeah. ‘Cuz my name.” she explains.

“I think bees are marvellous.” Sherlock then tilts his head. “Can you read the book?”

“Um… no.” Bea admits. “But I like the pictures.”

“I could read it to you.” He offers.

“Okay!” she exclaims and thrusts the book at Sherlock. He accepts the grubby cardboard-bound book as if it is an ancient artefact, and opens it with something like reverence.

John glows inside. Sometimes it’s hard to remember what it is exactly he sees in this man that is so often cold and ruthless, but then Sherlock will do or say something that is so implausibly lovely that it leaves John dizzy and love-struck.

He watches Sherlock read to Bea for a few minutes, and then he goes to speak to Katherine.

They chat over more tea, and Katherine expresses concern over Bea. She worries the same as John, that Bea is not reacting to her mother’s death fully.

“She’s such a brave little thing.” She says wistfully, and John nods.

Then John is stupid again.

“Do you think it’d be alright for me- us, I mean, to take her out, sometimes? Just to the park or something like that. Show her a bit of fun.”

Katherine smiles knowingly. “You and your partner? If it’s only for a couple of hours, I don’t see why not. She likes you both very much.”

“We.. ah, we like her too.” John says, and he feels like he is revealing something awful. He isn’t even sure if what he’s saying is true, he tries never to speak on Sherlock’s behalf other than to give thanks or apologies.

He has no idea how Sherlock feels about Bea, if he feels anything about her at all.

Then, John hears the unmistakeable wail of a child in tears, and he feels stupid.

 Of course Sherlock couldn’t be nice to her twice in a row, yesterday was some kind of bizarre fluke. He excuses himself from a concerned looking Katherine, and jogs back into the bedroom.

Sherlock had once theorized about not being able to rely on the evidence of one’s own eyes, John remembers as he stands in the doorway. He blinks a few times, but the scene before him remains the same, it is real. It is reality John is witnessing.

Bea is half-concealed by Sherlock’s greatcoat as he _hugs_ her, and cries into his chest. She is wiping her eyes (and possibly nose) on his scarf, and he is _patting her back_.

“I know,” he is saying softly. “But there's a nice girl who works there, called Molly, who'll be looking your mum over right now, trying to work out what happened to her. We're all working together to find out, so it doesn't happen to anybody else.”

Molly. The morgue. Sherlock is talking to Bea about the morgue—Bea asked Sherlock where her mother is, and he said ‘the morgue’. Oh sweet Jesus.

John quickly joins the two and pets Bea’s hair. “It’s alright.” He murmurs.

They sit with Bea for a little while in silence, before John asks her if she’d like to have a day out with them some time. She says she’d love to. Eventually she crawls out from under Sherlock’s coat, and they leave.

 

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“I can’t believe you told her that her mother was in a drawer in the morgue.” John fumes in the taxi.

Sherlock looks nonplussed, gazing out of the window. “It’s the truth, what should I have told her instead?”

“I don’t know, that’s she’s gone to heaven or something? You’re such an arse sometimes.”

Sherlock throws back his head and laughs like it’s the funniest thing he’s heard all day.

“I’m serious, Sherlock. You can’t speak to her like that, she’s _five_.”

“I dealt with it fine. She started to cry, so I held her, and she stopped, and I didn't even complain that she got mucus all over me.”

John is silently angry for a few minutes.

“You’re getting attached to her.” Sherlock accuses out of nowhere. “You were stroking her hair.”

John denies this a bit too quickly. “I’m not getting attached, it’s a soothing gesture. I’ve done it to you plenty of times.”

“Because you’re attached to me. You’re bonding with her.”

“She just lost her mother, a little bonding can’t hurt.” He hisses, defensive.

“It will when this is all over and you can’t see her any more.” Sherlock says, and John has nothing.

Not a single thing he can say to that.

“I’m the one actually helping her, I’m trying to find out who killed her mother. Isn’t that _nice_ of me?” Sherlock continues, ice creeping into his voice. “If you want to help, come with me this afternoon.”

John doesn’t want to ask, but he does anyway. “What’s happening this afternoon?”

“Lestrade found that Simon fellow. He was the victim’s parole officer.”

“Is he a suspect? Or Bea’s father, do you think?”

Sherlock shrugs, uncaring. “He’s a good place to start.”

 

 

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Simon doesn’t appear to be either. He didn’t even know the victim- _Natalie_ , John corrects –had died until the police contacted him. She’d fallen off his radar about a month ago, although he admits to worrying about her and Bea.

Simon is about thirty years old, has been married a few years and has two young children. He’s open and easy to interview, and gives them precisely nothing useful, apart from more details of Natalie’s negligence. Bea had almost been taken away by Social Services a few times as an infant. Simon knew about the drugs, but it wasn’t his job to try and stop her taking them. He expresses sympathy and regret that she died this way, and asks after Bea. He even consents to a DNA sample, and gives Sherlock a cheek swab.

It’s not clear why Sherlock asks for the DNA, they already know that they can place Simon at the flat as he has obviously been there as part of his duties as Natalie’s parole officer. He has also not known Natalie long enough to be Bea’s father, if what he says is true. John believes him, and from what he can pick up from Sherlock’s body language, he does too.

So, what remains is that a woman was choked by an unnamed male assailant, and then died in her house a week later, with no-one but Bea present.

“Maybe Bea killed her somehow.” Sherlock muses in Lestrade’s office.

Lestrade and John stare and stare.

“I love this case.” Sherlock sighs happily.

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

 “Botanical gardens should be right up your street, look.” John encourages, tossing a brochure at Sherlock’s head. Prying Sherlock’s focus from a case is near-impossible, but John steels himself. He wants this day out with Bea, and he isn’t taking her by himself.

“They’ve got greenhouses and insects and all that biology stuff that you like, and it’ll be fun for Bea. They even have a bee house, it says here.”

A few seconds later John looks up from his mug of tea to find himself under a thousand-watt scrutinising. Sherlock’s pupils are like pinpricks.

“Bee… house?” he asks calmly, and John is slightly afraid.

“Yeah, there’s a bee house. You can go and look at bees with Bea.” John confirms, and allows himself a light chuckle.

“That’s…. _brilliant_!” Sherlock exclaims, and kisses John joyfully. “You clever, clever man.”

The next week, John and Sherlock take Bea to Kew Gardens.

_No, sorry, actually-_

John takes Sherlock and Bea to Kew Gardens. Slightly different.

 

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Kew Gardens is absolutely stunning, every sprawling square acre of it. The stately greenhouses containing a wealth of rare plants, the exhibits of exotic bugs, the butterfly house, it all screams ‘royal’.

John had entertained notions of taking Bea to see the badger sett- _small children like badgers, don’t they? Are badgers cute or menacing_? – but Sherlock is having none of it.

“The bee house, John, we must go to the bee house.” Sherlock insists, and Bea takes one of his leather-gloved hands in her mittened one, nodding in agreement.

“Yeah, I wanna see the bees!” Bea holds her other hand out to John, and he takes it.

John can’t help but notice how cute she looks dressed up for a day out in the February chill, with her woollen hat and duffel coat. Or how funny it is to see Sherlock holding hands with a five year old girl. To any passer-by, they probably look like a family having a day out. It’s nice. Maybe they are.

“Only true lovers of science come out in this weather.” Sherlock announces as they meander around the grounds.

John promises Bea that they can go and see the rose garden and the palm house once Sherlock is _quite finished_ seeing the bees, and she squeezes his hand.

Once they arrive, they find themselves surrounded by wild flowers and frozen water fountains, and a faint buzzing can be heard all around. The colours and smells are heady. Then, rather predictably, they lose Sherlock. He drops Bea’s hand and takes off, drawn like a magnet to where a hive is split into cross sections behind glass, so that each layer – _supers_ \- can be seen, and the bees wiggling purposefully within the complex shapes and hexagonal structures.

Sherlock more or less elbows two visitors out of the way and presses his hands to the glass, breath frosting it. He looks utterly enraptured, like he is witnessing some form of miracle, and it does things to John’s heart.

“It’s a William Broughton Carr hive.” Sherlock says softly, awed. “Many more supers than a National. Aren’t they beautiful?”

Bea shuffles up next to him, and tugs the edge of his coat. “Where do they keep their honey?” she asks.

Sherlock whirls on her and looks down at her like she is a rare, precious jewel. “Yes!” he exclaims. “These are honey bees! Clever you.” He says, approval dripping in his voice, and it’s sincere.

John’s mind boggles. He’s never heard Sherlock call anyone ‘clever’ before, other than the people he No Longer Wishes To Discuss – Irene Adler, Moriarty, Mycroft. Then his mind boggles some more because there’s no way Sherlock thought that Bea could correctly identify honey bees on sight, she probably didn’t know that only a few types of bees make honey- John himself didn’t know that until a few minutes ago, thanks to a handy information point in the garden.

So obviously he is humouring her, and that’s… _bizarre as fuck_ , frankly. Sherlock does not humour people unless they have something he needs. Maybe Bea does? The case is yet unsolved.

But watching Sherlock sweep Bea up in his arms so she’s at eye level, and hearing him explain to her every juicy fact about the bees, their honey, the hives they live in, what flowers they like to pollenate… John’s heart does things again.

He allows himself a little fantasy, just for a split second.

_This is my family. That’s my husband, and my daughter, over there._

John mentally slaps himself so hard he actually winces for real.

 

After a while, Sherlock is satisfied- although not before practically bouncing on the spot with excitement when he sees a woman in a beekeeping suit extracting the honey from one of the park’s smaller hives- and they go to see the rest of the gardens. John sees trees and vegetation he remembers from Afghanistan. Bea seems oddly taken with the rose and orchid houses.

“They’re so pretty.” She whispers, and she sounds a bit sad.

“You like flowers?” John asks, putting a hand on her little shoulder.

Bea shrugs.

 

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They take Bea back to her foster home, and then the spell of happiness is broken, because there is An Exciting Development, and John is more or less widowed.

The heroin has finally been released from the lab, and there is something wrong with it, as Sherlock suspected. There is a chemical inside it that Scotland Yard couldn’t identify after a week of tests. So, a sample of the strange compound is dropped off at Baker Street, and Sherlock utterly withdraws into his mind. He sits at the kitchen table with his microscope and petri dishes, studying, experimenting, puzzling, teasing out the answer. To him, nothing else exists.

John does his best to keep Sherlock alive during this time, he’s gotten rather crafty at it now. He worked out a while ago that trying to get Sherlock to sit and eat a meal on a plate with a knife and fork is a waste of time, but if you leave food around near him- only ‘small food’, food that you can eat without really noticing; grapes, sesame seeds, nuts, crisps, carrot sticks – it mysteriously disappears. Similarly, Sherlock will not notice if he is given a cup of rich, nutritious soup or a vitamin-packed smoothie instead of a cup of tea or coffee. He just drinks it.

(John definitely did _not_ once ‘accidentally’ spill sticky cough syrup directly into Sherlock’s hair to get him to take a shower during a particularly long case. Nope.)

Unfortunately, John still sleeps alone that night. He can’t trick Sherlock into sleeping, and trying to covertly give him sleeping pills simply makes Sherlock paranoid and he refuses any food or liquid prepared by John completely, so he doesn’t try it.

The next day John is already bored, and a bit lonely. He phones Katherine, and asks to speak to Bea.

Bea chatters away and asks lots of questions about how John and Sherlock are doing. John wonders if it’s bad form to complain about his relationship problems to a five-year old in a foster home, but he does.

“He’s so busy, and he’s turned half our flat into a science lab! I think I could set myself on fire and he wouldn’t look up from his microscope.”

Bea giggles. “He’s funny. I bet your house looks funny, too.”

“That’s one way to put it.” John sighs, looking around at the mess. There is an open bottle of what looks like iodine soaking into the carpet.

“Can I come see your house?” Bea asks in his ear.

John pauses. “I don’t know. Maybe? You’d have to speak to Katherine about it.”

“Okay. I’ll do that. Bye bye!” and then she is gone.

John chuckles and starts tidying around Sherlock, wondering how best to child-proof what is starting to look like a meth lab in their kitchen. He picks up a beaker and leans into Sherlock’s space, brushing an errant curl out of his eyes.

“Is it alright if Bea comes round? She might stay the night, so I’ll need to clear out your room, seeing as you don’t use it any more. You don’t mind, do you?”

“Yes, yes, fine, go away.” Sherlock mutters irritably, and squeezes another drop of something that fizzes when it lands from a pipette onto some crystals in a dish.

“Thank you, love.” John says fondly and kisses him on the cheek, because he’s won and he feels smug. Sherlock swats at him without looking up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this chapter is bit shorter than the first two! It's basically because the next chapter is a beast, I have savage cramp from typing it.
> 
> To the best of my knowledge, I've never been to Kew Gardens. I'd like to though, it looks pretty in the pictures.


	4. Chapter 4

Bea’s visit is cleared with the foster home, and it takes John roughly twenty minutes to clear out Sherlock’s bedroom. It’s barely been used in months, it would have taken even less time to prepare the room if there wasn’t dust everywhere.

Sherlock is still unresponsive and won’t leave the microscope, although he has gotten no closer to identifying the mystery chemical and is becoming more and more unhinged as time progresses. It’s been four days now and he is audibly talking to himself and randomly swearing at thin air. John decides to talk to Mrs Hudson about Bea’s visit instead, and immediately wishes he hadn’t.

“Ooh, a child? That’s so exciting, John! But really, you ought to get married first. It’s the proper way to do things.”

John scoffs into his tea. “Yeah, sure. Marry Sherlock. As if that’s going to happen.”

“Stranger things have happened at sea.” Mrs Hudson says, eyes sparkling. “Besides, he loves you, you know he does.”

“It’s all that’s stopped me from strangling him this week. It’s like I don’t exist.”

“He just wants to help your little girl, that’s all.”

John is not at all reassured.

 

00000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000

Bea loves 221B. She dances through the hallway and bounces around the living room like a butterfly flickering around a hedge, with her overnight bag wedged securely under her arm.

“I like your house!” she says, beaming at John.

He chuckles. “Well, thank you. Would you like to see where you’re going to sleep, maybe pop your stuff down?”

He shows Bea Sherlock’s bedroom, and then settles her at the kitchen table while he fetches her a cup of juice.

“What are you looking at?” Bea asks Sherlock. He doesn’t reply or even look up from his microscope.

She asks him again, louder. “Sherlock. What are you looking at?”

“I’m working.” He snaps icily, and that is the end of that conversation. Bea frowns and looks vaguely upset when John brings her the juice.

“He’s just very busy,” John explains, and he isn’t really sure why he’s making excuses for Sherlock when he’s being such a twat. “He’s trying to find out what happened to your mum.”

Bea nods sagely. “That’s nice of him.”

“I—yeah, it is.” John says, defeated. “Shall we see what’s on telly?”

0000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000

 

John takes Bea downstairs to see Mrs Hudson while he cooks dinner for her. Bea takes a shine to her immediately, and when Mrs Hudson presents Bea with a wedge of Victoria sponge cake with fresh strawberries, they are friends for life.

“Don’t spoil your dinner, okay?” John reminds her, and Mrs Hudson practically glows.

“You’re so fatherly already!” she whispers to him as he makes his way back up to the flat.

 

“Sherlock--”

“No.”

John exhales deeply, and then uses a phrase he doesn’t like having to resort to.

“Sherlock, emergency flatmate conference. _Now_.”

Finally, Sherlock looks up from his microscope.

This code is long-established between them, and is rarely used. It was decided in the early days of their relationship that since John is Sherlock’s first romantic partner, on occasion it is only reasonable that he bow to John’s wider knowledge of love and intimacy, wholly and without argument. Sherlock had reluctantly agreed, and promised to take John’s word as gospel if John told him that his actions were Not Good For Our Relationship.

“Is there a problem?” he asks mildly.

“Yes. You are not to ignore Bea.” John says, keeping his words simple and unambiguous.

“But the case—“

“ _No_ , Sherlock. You have been staring at that chemical for four days now, and I’m sick of it. I’m a grown-up, I can cope with you ignoring me, but I won’t let you do it to Bea. Being ignored is really painful to children.”

Sherlock gives him a pleading look, knowing he isn’t allowed to argue.

“You’ve made absolutely no progress, so just take a break. Please. Take a break, and spend some time with Bea. Talk to her, play with her, sit with her, it means the world to her. Okay?”

There is a long, thoughtful pause that is mostly for show.

“I really haven’t made any progress.” Sherlock admits. “I haven’t the slightest idea what this is.”

John smiles. “Then come and eat dinner with us.”

“Alright, I won’t do any more work until Bea leaves.”

John gives him a grateful kiss.

 

00000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000

 

Dinner is just spaghetti and tomato sauce, but Bea eats like she’s never seen food before. _Malnourished_ , John thinks. She is still cute as a button with sauce all over her chin and cheeks.

“I almost forgot we had a table under all your junk, Sherlock.” John teases.

Sherlock huffs, and picks up a napkin. “Bea, you’re a mess. Here.” He begins wiping sauce off her face, and John can’t help but snap a cheeky picture on his phone. He sends it to Lestrade.

“Tasty tasty,” Bea sings, trying to squirm away from Sherlock. “Tasty pasta.”

“Yes, but it goes in your mouth. Not on your face and clothes. There, that’s a bit better, isn’t it?”

John’s phone beeps.

**You are my hero. Are you secretly medicating him? Or just shagging his brains out? -GL**

“Can I have a bath later please?” Bea asks.

“Of course you can, we’ll give you the bathroom for as long as you need.”

She looks slightly embarrassed, and tries to hide her face in a plastic cup.

“Bea needs someone to help her bathe and wash her hair.” Sherlock clarifies, and John feels slightly foolish. Bea is obviously too young to leave unattended in a big slippery container of hot water, his discomfort be damned.

“It’s alright,” Sherlock is saying to her. “We’ll help you get scrubbed down and make sure you don’t drown or anything.”

“Yeah.” John agrees. “Anything you need.

Bea smiles brightly and slurps up a mouthful of spaghetti. “Cool.”

 

About an hour later, Greg Lestrade receives another picture. A picture of Sherlock crouched next to a bathtub, sleeves of his fine shirt rolled up as he massages shampoo into blonde hair with a soft smile playing on his lips, even as Bea excitedly splashes him in the face with bathwater.

**Cute. You’re keeping her then? –GL**

**Fucked if I know. I was out of my depth miles ago –JW**

**You should get married first –GL**

John switches his phone to silent, and brings Sherlock some towels and a dry shirt.

 

00000000000000000000000000000000000000000

 

They don’t have any books that are suitable for reading a bedtime story to Bea, so John improvises one. He tells Bea about the Curious Case of The Glowing Rabbit, and modifies the story to make it family friendly. He tells her about their ingenious disguises for breaking into the scary lab, but leaves out any trace of murder, psychological warfare, people getting drugged by their dickhead flatmates, or huge terrifying dogs. The way the story ends up, it’s actually quite a charming tale of how John and Sherlock went to the countryside and solved a case just to re-unite a little girl with her rabbit, slightly improved with glow-in-the-dark skin.

Bea is awed at all the appropriate points during the story, and whispers “That’s so clever!” so many times that by the time they are finished, Sherlock is absolutely beside himself with pride. They tuck her up in bed, both receive a kiss on the cheek for their trouble, and turn out the light.

Sherlock dithers in the hallway, one hand on his cheek, looking pleasantly confused.

“You’re a good babysitter.” John teases.

“Well, I’m just trying to put myself through uni…” he replies coyly, affecting a look that is almost shy but still borderline inappropriate for the hallway.

“Oh, I see.” John nods, faking sympathy. “Well, I’m sure I could give you an extra tip if you really worked hard tonight.”

Sherlock laughs, breaking character. “I should have known. Four days and you’re practically climbing the walls.”

“And you’re fine, are you?”

John finds himself manhandled into their bedroom and shoved backwards onto the bed in a way that is probably not good for his spine. He groans happily and tilts his head to the side to allow Sherlock’s mouth over more of his neck.

Everything is really, really great, for about fifteen minutes.

John is pinching Sherlock’s nipples and whispering “I missed you, I missed you, you daft prick,” into the sweaty tangles of his hair, when suddenly Sherlock stiffens and his eyes are wide and alert.

“What?” John asks softly, and then he hears it.

Bea is crying. More than that, it sounds like she is trying to cry quietly, into a pillow or something. It’s a sound John remembers from his military service, and probably a sound that happens a lot in foster homes.

He starts to get up, but Sherlock is already wearing his pyjama bottoms and dressing gown and opening the bedroom door to go to her.

“I’ll go. Keep the bed warm for me.”

John supposes he is a bit slack-jawed because when Sherlock kisses him there is a naughty swish of tongue in his mouth. Then he’s gone, and John sits dumbly on the bed for about a minute and a half before quietly creeping out too. Like hell is he going to miss this.

John presses himself against the wall and listens. He hears Sherlock open the door, and the squeak of springs as he sits down on the bed.

“Are you alright? What’s the matter?”

“I want my mum…” Bea whimpers, and sobs again.

“Look, Bea, your mother…” Sherlock sighs, and if he doesn’t choose his next words carefully, he’s going to have a black eye in the morning.

“I’m sure she misses you.” he says after a moment or two, and John can’t believe it.

“H-how can she? She’s dead…” and then Bea’s voice is muffled slightly, probably because Sherlock is hugging her.

There’s silence apart from her quiet sniffling for a bit, and then, “I was dead once. I missed John terribly.”

John’s chest hurts. His eyes sting.

“You died?” Bea is asking incredulously. “How come you came back?”

“John wasn’t doing very well without me. But you’re tough, aren’t you, Bea?”

John assumes that Bea is nodding.

“That’s right. Now, do you need anything? Glass of water, or a bit of light in here? I have a torch somewhere…”

He hears Sherlock stand up, and John sneaks back to bed. He feels raw inside. It’s an old wisdom that love and hate are two sides of the same coin, and John hates Sherlock for dying and leaving him by himself in the world. Being alone was unbearable because not having Sherlock is unbearable.

John loves him so much it leaves him short of breath. What he’d just overheard was compassion. It was kind, and selfless, he doesn’t understand how or why that had come from Sherlock, but there it was. Maybe the sentiment was false, maybe it was driven by an ulterior motive, but it still happened.

By the time Sherlock comes back to bed, John is positively _wild_.

“I love you,” he growls as he pulls off Sherlock’s dressing gown and grabs two handfuls of his arse.

“You know, it’s rude to eavesdrop.” Sherlock says into John’s collarbone, but his voice is already rough with arousal.

“You were so lovely with her.” John sighs, and leans up in the dark to kiss forehead, cheeks, nose.

“Let’s try to be quiet, hm?” is all he gets by way of reply, and then every thought in his head is washed away because there are long fingers pushing into his mouth and wrapping around his cock in beautiful synchronicity.

 

A bit later, Sherlock is curled sweatily around the length of John’s back, warm breath tickling his ear.

“What were your parents like?” John asks him quietly, swirling a thumb over the back of a pale hand.

He snorts. “Why do you want to know?”

“Just curious.”

Sherlock shrugs behind him and dots a kiss a few inches left of the scar on John’s shoulder.

“Hands-off. Father died when I was about Bea’s age, Mummy packed me off to boarding school about a year later. Stayed there until I was eighteen.”

“Oh.” is all John can muster in response.

“You’re right, being ignored is painful to children. Makes them into funny adults that crave approval.”

“You’re lucky you’ve got me to tell you you’re brilliant all the time.”

Sherlock laughs sleepily.

“How did your father die?” John asks.

“He had an affair. Got her pregnant, I suspect.”

“That…” John begins, “Having an affair isn’t a cause of death.”

“I suppose it’s more of a motive. A bullet between the eyes will do it, though.”

John doesn’t feel very relaxed any more.

“Infidelity is not taken lightly in the Holmes family, John. Remember that.” Sherlock says mildly, and it’s _wrong_ how amused he seems at John’s discomfort.

“If I cheat on you, you’ll have me assassinated?” he asks, trying to sound like he is just as amused by the conversation.

“Oh, no.” Sherlock says blithely. “Who’d run the blog? And besides, Bea needs you.”

 

00000000000000000000000

 

John dreams he is back at the craggy beach, but the sea lions are all gone. The only thing on the bleak landscape is John, and a few feet away, Sherlock. His pyjamas and hair are damp and dishevelled with seawater, it’s quite an attractive look, John feels.

Sherlock grins at him _. I know something you don’t know._

“What are you looking so smug about?” John calls over the sound of the tide.

Sherlock only smirks wider.

John decides to kiss that smug look off Sherlock’s face, and he does.

The sea roars and crashes, and John’s blood pounds in his ears.

The resulting din sounds like the dull buzzing of bees.

 

000000000000000000000000000

 

John wakes the following morning to find London blanketed in white snow, and Sherlock and Bea in the kitchen eating toast. He wonders if he is still dreaming.

“Can we build a snowman?” Bea asks, lips sticky with jam. "I wanna build a snowman before I have to go home."

“Of course.” John chuckles, pouring himself a mug of tea. “We’ll build him right outside, he can be the snowman of Baker Street.”

 

Once Bea is wrapped up in one of John’s smaller jumpers, Sherlock’s second-favourite scarf, two pairs of gloves, and three pairs of socks, they allow her outside to build the snowman. They give him rocks for eyes, a stick of celery for a nose, and Sherlock crafts him a rather fashionable tie and belt out of crime scene tape. Then he runs back inside, claiming he forgot the most important thing of all. John shrugs and continues helping Bea.

“Are you and Sherlock married?” she asks abruptly.

“No, we’re not.” John replies a bit too quickly.

“Oh.” Bea does her wise nodding thing that she often does. “But you love eachother?”

“Yes. He’s my boyfriend.” John does not say this very often. It sounds wrong.

“Maybe you should get married. Then I can stay here.” Bea suggests.

John’s heart races. “You’d want to stay here? Don’t you like living with Katherine?”

Bea shrugs. “She’s okay. Here is better.”

“I’ll see what I can do.” John says flatly. He feels far away and dizzy.

Sherlock comes back out from the house, clutching at arm’s length, The Ear Hat. He puts it on the snowman, and stands back with his hands on his hips.

“That’s a weird hat.” Bea says, peering at it.

“It’s a bloody awful hat. I’m giving it to the snowman, because I am never, ever wearing it again so long as I live.” Sherlock declares.

Bea shrugs in acceptance. “He can be a detective snowman.”

 

Somewhere not too far away, Mycroft sits in front of a screen displaying the CCTV footage of Baker Street for that morning. He smiles at the little grainy Sherlock, John and Bea playing in the greying snow, and hits record.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, um, there's, like, a LOT of porn in this chapter. Sorry/you're welcome?

“John. John! John come here please!”

Bea is back at the foster home. Sherlock is back at his microscope.

John is losing his fucking mind.

“John!”

“Yes, alright, I’m here, what is it? Did you find something?”

“Nicotine patch.” Sherlock holds out his arm without looking up.

John clenches his fists by his side.

“You’re already wearing _four_.”

“Yes. Need more. Not working.” Sherlock opens and closes his hand in a ‘gimme’ gesture.

“You’re going to make yourself ill. You look like shit anyway, where are you even going to put another patch?”

Sherlock does not move his outstretched arm.

“Oh my god—fine. I’ll get you another patch.”

John walks over to the desk drawer a mere three feet away, which is apparently too far for Sherlock, and fetches a fresh patch. He peels off the back pushes Sherlock’s shirt open, and then slaps it down over his sternum.

“Thank you.” Sherlock says, and re-adjusts a lense.

John’s left eye twitches. “Wait, I put it on wrong. Hold on.”

He yanks off the sticky patch so hard he tears out clumps of Sherlock’s chest hair. Sherlock howls in pain and almost jumps out of his seat.

“Ouch! Watch what you’re bloody doing you imbecile!” he shouts, flailing his limbs ineffectually.

“Whoops, clumsy me.”

Sherlock waves his hand dismissively and goes back to scowling at the sample under his microscope, muttering angrily. He has huge dark rings under his eyes and his hair is sticking up, the very image of the mad scientist.

John shakes his head and starts boiling the kettle to make coffee. It’s almost lunchtime, making it six hours since Sherlock has had any liquid, and he is now refusing anything that doesn’t contain caffeine. John had tried to explain that coffee is a diuretic and that dehydration wouldn’t help Sherlock think, but he had just been shouted at for his trouble.

“Fine!” he’d said. “I hope your piss turns orange and your kidneys crumble into dust.”

John is fetching the milk from the fridge when he hears a disgusted “ugh!” and a noise like a cat coughing up a hairball.

“Sherlock,” he says without turning around, “don’t eat the sample, it might have killed that woman.”

“Shut up.” comes the choked reply. “Shut up, piss off, and go fuck yourself while you’re at it.”

John’s eyebrows rise. Sherlock isn’t really one for profanity, he has such a staggering vocabulary that he only resorts to swearing when his mind is tearing itself apart.

John decides for this reason, not to rise to it. “Now, now. That’s not very nice.” he chides gently.

 

“John,” Sherlock says uncertainly as John sits down to drink his coffee, “I feel strange.”

John rolls his eyes. “Well, whose fault is that? Don’t put things in your mouth if you don’t know what they are.” Speaking to Sherlock like he is three years old is surprisingly therapeutic.

“John.” he says again, “I feel incredibly hot and a bit dizzy.”

Looking over at Sherlock, John notices that although he is still pale, Sherlock’s face is actually quite red, and his breathing is a bit faster than normal. His pupils are dilating wider and wider every second. John stands up to go over to Sherlock, and presses a hand against a flushed cheek. His temperature is only a bit higher than normal, but he looks—

“John,” Sherlock’s voice is deeper, coarser. He grabs John’s wrist, and tugs him closer so they are almost nose to nose.

“John.” This time it’s almost a purr.

“What- what on earth’s gotten into you?” John stammers, eyes wide.

Sherlock pulls on John’s wrist again, and manipulates it so that John’s hand is in his lap. His cock is impossibly hard, and he rubs John’s hand against himself and makes a soft gasp of pleasure.

“You’re having a reaction to the chemical.” John says dumbly.

“Yes, obviously.” Sherlock replies but there is no snappiness to his tone. His voice is dark, silky, inviting.

“It’s made you, um, aroused. Sexually.”

“Mm, yes…” Sherlock is slowly rocking his hips back and forth against John’s palm. His eyes are almost black and he keeps licking his lips.

John has no idea what to do. This is consent of the most dubious variety, Sherlock obviously barely knows what he’s doing, he looks _out of his mind_ with lust.

“I’m _aching_ …” Sherlock complains. “I need you to help me. The chemical’s done this to me, but you know I desire you anyway. It wouldn’t be immoral.”

Stupid mind-reading horny bastard.

“Please, John.” His voice is near pleading. “I’ll make it so good for you.”

“Okay.” John’s mouth is dry when he swallows.

He seats himself on the sofa, hands in his lap, and then a second later, Sherlock is on him. All over him like a fire on petrol-soaked rags. He grinds himself into John’s lap like a drunken teenager and sucks at John’s neck. Then, he slithers down onto the floor, between John’s legs, and goes for his flies.

About a second later, there are wet lips and a hot tongue on his cock and John tips his head back against the couch with a groan. He curls his fingers in Sherlock’s hair.

“Fucking hell…” he gasps.

He struggles to keep his hips still against the sweet, maddening swipes of tongue around his most sensitive areas, until without warning Sherlock’s mouth pops off him with a wet noise, and he hears Sherlock spitting into his hand. Then, he goes back down, and John’s prick is surrounded in lush, soft suckling flesh once more. He mentally prepares himself and spreads his legs a little, but no fingers nudge up against his arse. Nothing.

Then, he feels a deep moan reverberate around Sherlock’s mouth and he clutches his hair tighter because _oh god, yes_. He opens an eye, and sure enough, Sherlock has a hand down the back of his trousers and his brow is crinkled with strained pleasure. He makes another noise of self-enjoyment and John bites his lip, hard.

Then Sherlock is back squirming in his lap, somehow totally naked apart from his shirt. John notices the bald patch, and feels slightly bad, Sherlock didn’t exactly have much chest hair to begin with.

“Saliva isn’t a substitute for lube, Sherlock. Go and get it.” John instructs, and to his amazement, Sherlock climbs off him and jogs into their bedroom to fetch it.

Sherlock drizzles the KY jelly over John’s cock like syrup on ice cream, and then he is mounting him hurriedly. His eyes are clouded and hazy.

“God,” he gasps, slowly impaling himself. “Need this, so badly. Please, John. Fuck me.”

The pace is immediate and overwhelming. Sherlock bounces hard on John’s dick, bony fingers digging into John’s biceps. For a while it’s enough, and then it isn’t. He rolls off John, and leans over the arm of the sofa, arse in the air. John slams back into him and Sherlock _screams_.

John manages to wrestle two orgasms out of Sherlock before he gives in and has one himself. Whatever this mystery chemical is, they could make a fucking mint if they sold it to the porn industry. Sherlock seems to seize up, ejaculate, have a breather for about five seconds, and then shout at John to continue, without his erection flagging one iota.

However, John isn’t as young as he once was, and isn’t crazed on sex chemicals, so once he has come inside Sherlock, for the next half an hour he has to use his hands and mouth while his cock recuperates. Sherlock thrashes around wildly and makes noises that to a person not involved- _please, God, let Mrs Hudson be out, let her be out or in the shower or suddenly stone deaf_ – might sound like he is being savagely attacked. He bellows John’s name and comes a fourth time, legs trembling uncontrollably around John’s shoulders.

They fuck a second time, on the kitchen floor, and Sherlock claws at John’s back until he is fairly certain he’s bleeding. Sherlock is still howling “John, John, fuck, John,” to the heavens, and it’s pretty fucking fantastic.

Eventually, Sherlock seems to calm down. He spends a while just lying next to John and slowly kissing him while he masturbates. Then, satisfied for the time being, he lies spread-eagled on the floor, panting like he’s run a marathon.

“Jesus Christ.” John says disbelievingly. “Did I really just make you come five times in a row?”

Sherlock shakes his head. Then he holds up seven fingers.

John laughs incredulously. “No.”

“Didn’t properly ejaculate the last two times, just a dribble… Not surprised you didn’t notice…” he says weakly.

“God, I’m sore. Aren’t you sore? I went at you like I was drilling for oil.”

“Sleepy…” Sherlock mumbles, his voice quiet and far away.

“You’re a bloody idiot for tasting that stuff. You’re lucky it didn’t kill you.”

He doesn’t reply. He is quietly snoring.

John takes pity on the shagged-out, exhausted, cum-splattered mess that is his flatmate/lover/colleague and gathers him up in his arms, even though his back and knees wail in protest. He deposits Sherlock in bed, and then spends a little while rubbing him down with a damp cloth. Once he is less debauched-looking, John decides to let Sherlock sleep a while, and goes to get some lunch from the café downstairs. Lord knows he’s earned it.

The second John steps into Speedy’s, he feels like the entire café is staring at him. He orders a baguette, and the girl behind the counter smirks at him.

“You live in 221B, right?” she asks.

“Yeah…?”

“Are you John? Or the other one?”

“I’m John.” he says, confused. “Sorry, how did—“

Every single person in the café starts clapping and cheering raucously. John turns bright red.

“That sounded like one hell of a performance, John.” The girl behind the counter says, and laughs. “Your boyfriend’s louder than the TV.”

John thrusts a ten-pound note at her and ducks out, ears burning.

 

000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000

 

Sherlock sleeps for a record-shattering thirteen hours.

When John wakes the following morning, there is a note next to him on the bed.

_Have gone to the morgue. I think I know how Bea’s mother died._

_Meet me there when you wake up._

_SH_

 

What John finds when he arrives at St. Bart’s is not a pleasant sight. Sherlock and Molly are both wrist-deep in poor Natalie’s abdominal cavity.

“There,” Molly is saying. “Do you see it?”

“You’re sure that’s it? Take a cell sample.” Sherlock instructs, and grins wolfishly at John when he looks up. “Hello, John.”

John rushes over to them. “What’s going on? What did you find?” he asks.

“I’ll run the tests now.” Molly says, smiling at Sherlock. “Do you have the other DNA sample?”

He hands Molly a plastic tube with a cotton bud inside it. John spots the name ‘Simon’ on the label.

“What are you doing?” John asks, feeling a bit ignored. He shuffles up next to Sherlock.

“Look.” Sherlock says simply, and points.

He and Molly have been examining the uterus. Nestled against the uterine wall is a tiny cluster of flesh, just a collection of cells, hardly noticeable. John’s stomach drops, the corners of his mouth turn down.

“An embryo.” John says quietly. “About three weeks along at time of death.”

Sherlock grins and it makes John angry. “I knew it! I knew it.”

“Why are we looking at this, Sherlock?”

Sherlock gives John his ‘ _come on, you can do this_ ’ look of faux-patience.

“That was Simon’s cheek swab. You’re comparing it with the cells of the embryo. You think this is his…?” John doesn’t want to use the word ‘ _baby_ ’. This bundle of cells isn’t a baby, and it never will be.

“See, wasn’t that easy?” Sherlock encourages. “Yes, that’s what I think. Your early theory about Simon being Bea’s father was plausible, but the timing was wrong. I started to wonder. Now I just need Molly to prove it.”

“But, why?”

“He’s married, has children. And he’s her probation worker. He’d be in a lot of hot water if he got her pregnant, don’t you think?”

John’s jaw slackens. “You think he killed her to cover up the fact that he got her pregnant?”

Sherlock shrugs enigmatically. “This doesn’t prove that he, or anyone for that matter, killed her. There are more pieces that I need to find, before I can complete the puzzle.”

Twenty minutes later, Molly rushes back in. “It’s a match.” she says shakily. “Your man is the father.”

Sherlock whips out his mobile and _phones_ \- not texts, but phones- Lestrade.

“Get me Simon’s credit history, I need to see everything he’s bought over the last month, month and a half. As of right now, we have a suspect.” He hangs up.

Then, with a swish of his coat, Sherlock is gone.

Molly sighs and shakes her head. “Bit dramatic, isn’t he?”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My deepest apologies to the scientific community, I'm fairly sure this chapter is full of glaringly inaccurate chemistry.

It doesn’t take long for Sherlock to find what he’s looking for in Simon’s credit card purchases.

“Here.” Sherlock taps the screen of the monitor in Lestrade’s office. “Look at this.”

John reads the statement aloud. “Three thousand pounds for ‘unrefined yohimbe bark’ from a company called Agritech.”

“Of course.” Sherlock says, resolute. “Lestrade, bring Simon in for questioning.”

“What? Wait a second!” Lestrade protests. “A little explanation, please.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes despairingly. “Seriously? I have to spell it out for you?”

“If you wouldn’t mind enlightening us normal folk.” John chips in tersely.

“Okay. Fine. This company, Agritech, they’re a pharmaceutical company that supplies various chemicals used in farming and agriculture.”

“What business does Simon have buying… fertilizer or whatever this is, then?” Lestrade asks.

“It’s not a fertilizer. It’s used in breeding cattle. Yohimbe bark has a resin inside that can be extracted and turned into an extremely powerful alpha-adrenergic antagonist.”

“Look, if you’re just making up words—“

Something in John’s brain clicks. “It’s an aphrodisiac. For cattle. That’s what was in the heroin!”

“Yes, thank you John, glad to see you’re listening.”

“That explains why you were so—ah, ahem.” John stops abruptly.

Lestrade looks between them, confused and mildly disturbed. “Why he was what?”

Sherlock doesn’t appreciate having his deductions derailed. “The chemical, it floods the system with testosterone, causing extreme arousal in a male subject. But what about a female subject? Why plant it in drugs for a woman to use? It’d hardly do anything. _Except_ , John?”

Sherlock and Lestrade both look at John expectantly. John racks his brain.

“Female patient, would have only very minor effects, basically nothing except…” John looks up, and Sherlock gives him a smile that is almost patronisingly approving, because John’s _got it_ and Sherlock is proud.

“It would terminate a pregnancy.” John concludes.

“Thank you, John. So, Simon has an affair with Natalie- probably a one-off moment of weakness, he’s a highly moral man and cares for his family, probably felt guilty and ashamed, not to mention terrified of losing his job. Then, about a month later, he gets a nasty surprise. Natalie’s pregnant. Maybe she threatens him, maybe she blackmails him. Either way, he doesn’t want anyone to find out.”

“So he puts the weird chemical in drugs he knew she’d take, to make her miscarry? That’s sick.” Lestrade mutters.

“Very good. Except, of course, Simon doesn’t know the first thing about endorphinotrophic chemistry, he gives her however much three thousand quid will buy him, it works a bit too well, and she drops dead.”

There’s a stunned silence.

“Well, she wouldn’t have dropped dead, she  probably would have had extreme dizziness and difficulty breathing before slowly asphyxiating, when I first questioned Bea she had said it sounded like her mother couldn’t breathe and was behaving in a way that frightened her, which is why she was in the wardrobe.” Sherlock adds thoughtfully.

“Jesus.” John utters.

Lestrade picks up the phone and authorizes Simon’s arrest. He’s not sure if Simon will go down for just manslaughter as he didn’t actually mean to kill Natalie, or if he will be charged with murder.

“It’s been an absolute pleasure, that bark resin in particular kept me busy for bloody ages. Really meaty, chewy case, this one.” Sherlock celebrates, rising to his feet. “John, I’ll see you at home, I’ve simply got to write down my findings.”

John nods and Sherlock sweeps out of Lestrade’s office. Lestrade leans forward over his desk conspiringly and addresses John.

“You know… now that this is all over, Bea will probably be moved to a more permanent home. She may even get adopted by a family.”

John’s face is blank. Blank and hard. “Yes, I suppose so.”

He knew this time was coming, he just didn’t want it to be right now. He didn’t want it to be over, whatever it was.

Lestrade is starting to smile. He lowers his voice. “That family…  it should be you and Sherlock.”

John crumples. It should. _It should_.

“What do I do?” he asks, his voice a whisper.

“I’ll see what I can do, alright? You’ll need a criminal records check, but you’re a reliable sort of bloke. Decorated soldier and all that. I’ll happily provide a character reference for you, if you make the adoption bid. Just do it soon, because you won’t have long.”

“What about Sherlock?” John asks. John has a nasty feeling Sherlock’s criminal record is probably about as thick as an encyclopaedia, and that’s _after_ Mycroft’s had his way with it.

Lestrade looks grave. He laces his fingers in his lap. “I don’t know, John. I’ll look into it. In the meantime, perhaps you should consider… um..”

“Consider _what_ , Greg?”

“I know you love him, we all do, in our own way but he’s…” Lestrade pauses again, before re-selecting his words. “You might be in with a stronger chance of getting Bea if you applied for sole custody. Single dads are very in right now I’m told.”

John stands up. “I’m not single. I have Sherlock.”

“Yes.” Lestrade agrees. “That’s where you might run into problems.”

His fists clench by his sides. “I’m not going to do that. No way. Bea’s mad about him, and so am I. I won’t do it without him.”

Lestrade groans, defeated. “I thought you’d say that. I’ll see what I can do, alright? I’ll be in touch.”

John marches out of the office absolutely fuming.

 

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Simon confesses to planting the chemical in Natalie’s heroin to try and terminate her pregnancy. He hadn’t meant to kill her, not at all. He goes to prison. Molly quietly informs John that Natalie’s body has been released, now that the investigation is over. She suggests they allow Bea a funeral.

Bea is in 221B, sitting on the edge of what is now the ‘guest bed’. Sherlock is showing her his poster of the periodic table.

“This is the table of elements, Bea. Everything in the universe that exists, is made of a combination of these one hundred and eighteen ingredients. And every thing that grows naturally- trees, flowers, animals, human beings - they're made of this one, carbon.” He taps the poster.

Bea blinks at the poster. “We’re made of carbon? I thought people were made of bones and guts and stuff.”

“The bones and guts and all of it, at their very basest form, are made of carbon. It can make itself into almost anything, but by itself, it just looks like a pile of ash.” Sherlock explains.

John feels this is a good time to cut in. “When people die, their mind goes somewhere else, and they don’t need their body any more.”

“Just transport. Casing for the brain.” Sherlock agrees.

“So, if you would like, we can take that ash, that used to be your mum, and return it to the earth. Then, she can be a flower or a tree again.” John suggests gently, one hand on Bea’s shoulder.

Bea nods. “Mum loved flowers. She’d want to be like those ones we went to see, the long ones.”

“Orchids.” Sherlock supplies.

 

00000000000000000000000000000000000000000

 

They go back to Kew Gardens, with a small white urn. Bea holds both Sherlock and John’s hands again. They both wear black suits, and Bea a black dress. The orchid house is closed for the day, but there is a garden maze with sunflowers that attracts Bea’s attention.

“Here! Here!” she says, jumping up and down a bit.

They walk the maze, and in its centre are sunflowers that must be at least six feet tall. They’re vibrant and wonderful.

“Do you have your letter, Bea?” Sherlock prompts.

Bea pulls out a crumpled scrap of paper from the pocket of her dress, and John recognises Sherlock’s handwriting, but traced over in shaky pencil. He helped her write it. When? John looks at Sherlock over Bea’s head and smiles. _You always surprise me, love._ Sherlock smiles back.

Bea begins to read.

“Dear Mum, hi. I'm s-sorry that you've gone away. I hope you are not in pa...pa-in? Pain any more. You did a good job...” she looks at John and shows him the letter. “What's this word?”

“Raising.”

“-Raising me. Thank you for being my Mum. This is John and Sherlock. I really like them. I hope you become a pre-pretty flower. Love you for-ever. Bea.”

John and Sherlock crouch down to Bea’s level, and help her open the urn. With her hands in theirs, she scatters the ashes at the roots of the tall sunflowers.

Once the urn is empty, the three are silent for a while. Sherlock rests his head against Bea’s, and John rubs her back through her coat. She sniffles, trying not to cry.

“I’m trying not to be sad.” Bea says defiantly. “Mum doesn’t like me to be sad.”

“It’s okay to be sad.” John re-assures.

Sherlock looks pained, like he is thinking about something upsetting. It’s not a look John has ever seen him do for real, only put on as an act to get confessions.

John remembers for no reason a time he’d spoken with Mycroft. He’d told John that he’d learned Sherlock wasn’t dead only when Sherlock had turned up at their mother’s wake, blended in with the other mourners. Mycroft had originally thought he was some sort of grief-induced hallucination.

‘Mummy’ Holmes had died thinking her youngest son had killed himself.

_She doesn’t like me to be sad._

John slides his arm around Bea’s back to squeeze Sherlock’s arm. Sherlock looks mildly surprised at the contact and gives John a weak smile again.

 

Before they take Bea home, John whispers to her, “I’m going to sort it out so you can come live with us. If you still want to, that is?”

She looks up at him with wide, hopeful eyes.

“Yeah.” Bea whispers back.

“It might take a bit of time, but I’ll do my best.” John promises, and kisses her goodbye.

 

00000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000

 

John receives the call from Lestrade the next day.

“I’ve been working my bloody arse off for you two ingrates.” he complains. “But, I’ve made some progress.”

“How’s it looking?” John asks.

“Like I said, you’re in the clear. Perfectly good candidate. Sherlock, on the other hand… Well, I’m sure you can imagine the kinds of difficulties I ran into trying to find evidence that he’s parent material.”

John says something he doesn’t expect. “I know he is.”

Sherlock looks up from the newspaper, he seems to know he is being discussed.

“They’d be willing to accept your application to adopt Bea if Sherlock can prove that he would be a capable, responsible, and safe guardian.”

“And how does he do that?”

“He’d have to have an… evaluation of sorts. An assessment.”

“You mean a psychological evaluation.”

Sherlock is mouthing ‘what?’ at him, but John simply turns away.

“I’ve made an appointment, if he’ll agree to it. It’s looking like the only way to get both of you in. Speak to him, I’ll forward you the details.”

John hangs up, and turns to Sherlock.

“I’d- can I talk to you about something?” he begins diplomatically.

“You want us to adopt Bea.” Sherlock asserts.

“Well, er, yes.” John admits.

“But there’s a problem with the process, and it’s me.”

“Yes. Look, I know I should have spoken to you about this earlier—“

“I’ve known for weeks now. If I had an objection to the idea I would have voiced it by now.”

John is cautious. “You want this too? You want to adopt Bea?”

“Yes. Obviously. She’s clever and sharp and tough, absolutely brimming with potential. Nobody could raise her like us.”

“You think you can raise a child?”

“Obviously Lestrade doesn’t, which is why he wants me to go to a psychological evaluation.”

“It’s not Lestrade, he supports you fully, it’s just Social Servies. You’ve got a pretty spotted record, and with words like ‘sociopath’ being thrown around…”

“You aren’t sure either.” Sherlock says abruptly.

“What? No, Sherlock, I know you’d be a great dad, Bea loves you.”

“Not that. The examination. You think I can’t pass it, that I’ll fail to jump through their hoops, otherwise you’d be encouraging me to attend it right now.”

“You do get a bit involved in your own stuff sometimes, you’ve got to admit that. I mean, if you forget to feed yourself-“

“Then I’ll forget to feed Bea. You think I’ll ignore her, neglect her, like her mother.”

“That’s not what I’m saying! Even if you did ignore her once.”

“You often feel ignored yourself, don’t you John?”

“Yes, okay, I do. Sometimes I feel like I come second to your work, and I don’t like that. You need to decide what’s the most important to you, Sherlock. Because if it isn’t your family…”

“Then what?”

“Then you don’t deserve one.”

Sherlock’s face shifts into a mask of hostility. “I understand.”

He gets up, and starts putting on his coat and scarf. John winces.

“I didn’t mean it like that.”

“It’s perfectly clear what you meant. I’m going out, don’t follow me.” Sherlock says, and to any other person, he just sounds curt and rude, but John can hear the hurt underneath. Anger, frustration.

It’s getting dark outside. “Just don’t…” John starts, and doesn’t know how to finish. “Please come back tonight. Will you do that?”

“Why does it matter when I come back?” Sherlock snaps, fully-dressed and heading for the door.

“It matters to me, alright? God, for someone so perceptive you still surprise me with how much you don't understand human interaction.”

Sherlock scowls. “Yes, I heard you the first time, all the makings of a wonderful parent. Goodbye, John.”

John slams the door behind him, and goes to sit in front of the television to stew for a while.

He notices that he is limping.


	7. (Interlude)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is just a little interlude, because I thought it was time we got to visit Sherlock's mind and leave John to be grumpy.

Emotions running high. Danger. Need a place free of temptations. Go to Molly Hooper’s house.

Molly answers door wearing jumper-dress that is real cashmere, obviously very luxurious gift. Probably new romantic partner. Face immediately creases in concern.

“I had a fight with John. Please let me sleep on your sofa.” Wince at own voice, sound pathetic.

“Of course, please, come in.” Poorly-masked pity. Already thinks fight was my fault.

Lie down on promised sofa. Don’t want to move, everything too awful for words.

Text message.

**I’m sorry. Please come back so we can talk. –JW**

Don’t want to talk. Don’t want to be insulted further.

“Do you want to talk about what happened?”

Shake head.

“How about a glass of wine?”

Nod. Don’t usually enjoy alcohol, but might prove calming. Emotional responses still uncomfortably heightened.

Drink offered wine. Immediately remember why I usually avoid alcohol, unbearable craving for cigarette not even half-way through first glass.

“Molly, do you have any cigarettes?”

Molly attempts stern look. Has cigarettes, doesn’t want me to smoke.

“Please?” Re-arrange face into one that has worked before in Getting Things From Molly.

Acquire one Marlboro Light – ugh, light – and box of matches. Could almost weep with gratitude.

Push snow off wooden bench in Molly’s garden and perch, trying to avoid wet trousers as best possible. Don’t really enjoy cigarette as much as had hoped. Disappointing.

Return inside, go to lie down on sofa again but Molly sitting on half of it.

“Do you want a head rub?”

Consider. Molly’s head rubs soothing in all past instances.

Agree. Lie with head in Molly’s lap, jumper-dress definitely real cashmere.

Unusual for male partner to buy clothes as a gift, usually tend towards jewellery. Possibly female romantic partner. Female with a lot of money and expensive taste. Likes her partners shy, timid. Perhaps enjoys choosing their clothes.

Open eyes even though Molly’s fingers in hair very relaxing. Really hope purchaser of dress is not Irene Adler. Very worrisome thought.

Can’t really ask to see Molly’s wrists to check for evidence of handcuffs or rope. Forget it.

“This is about that little girl, isn’t it? The daughter of the woman we looked at the other day.”

Feel mouth twist into sad shape. Bea. Would find Bea’s company comforting right now. Nice to hold in arms, enjoy play-doh and watermelon shampoo smell of her. Love her laugh and fascinated eyes.

“You once likened me to your father.” Not sure why vocalised. Irrelevant.

“Yeah. I suppose it’s a good thing we never dated!” Nervous giggling hurts my ears.

Molly continues. “I think you’d be a nice dad. Lestrade said you’re good with her.”

Want so many things. Want to help Bea improve her literacy, read to her at every opportunity. Want to teach her science, show her how things are made. Such a fresh new mind, in much better condition than own.

Text message.

**I’m worried about you, and I miss you. Twat. –JW**

Bea also brave and resilient. Excellent qualities in a friend, flatmate or blogger. Can only imagine how Bea would develop co-parented by John. Possibly unstoppable.

Molly applies pressure to occipital lobe, feel tension in neck start to ebb. Starting to crash, heightened adrenaline from argument leaking out to be replaced with exhaustion.

Drink more wine.

Text message. Becoming more frequent, John agitated.

**You do deserve a family, Sherlock. I can’t look after her without you. You’ll pass that stupid examination no problem, I know you can. –JW**

Chest unexpectedly tight. Eyes hot. John’s unwavering faith so touching and undeserved.

_(Nobody could be that clever._

_You could.)_

More wine. Fall asleep in Molly’s lap.

 

Awake approximately seven hours later with An Idea. A most wonderful, inspired, marvellous idea.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is ridiculously schmoopy and fluffy and I'm embarrassed, frankly.

John wakes at 6am to the sound of his phone ringing.

“Sherlock? Sherlock, where are you?”

“What? Sherlock’s missing?”

Hmm. Sherlock does not usually talk about himself in the third person, also he does not usually sound so female.

“Sarah. Sorry, don’t worry about it, I’m half-asleep still. What’s up?”

“I’m ill. Rotten cold, would you believe.”

“You need me to cover you today?”

“You’re an absolute darling, thank you. I’ll ring reception and have them transfer you my appointments.”

“No worries. Feel better, alright?”

“I’ll try. I hope Sherlock’s alright…?”

“He’s a big boy, I’m sure he can take care of himself.”

John dresses slowly, fingers clumsy with the early-morning chill of their bedroom. He is actually glad of the emergency shift at the surgery, surely it’s much better than sitting around the flat all day waiting for Sherlock to bother coming home. Like last night. He’d finally given up and gone to sleep at about three.

 

Being at the surgery does not help John’s mood at all, because he seems to be treating wave after wave of adorable children. A little girl with a broken wrist, a little boy with measles, a new-born baby in for her first vaccinations, with proud, glowing parents.

At lunch John checks his phone, and there is still nothing from Sherlock. He decides to text him one more time, just on the off-chance.

**Please come home. I love you. –JW**

His phone beeps before he can even put it back in his pocket.

**I am home. You are not. –SH**

**I got called into work. Are you okay? –JW**

**I’m fine. I have a surprise for you. –SH**

**That makes me a bit nervous. –JW**

**I love you too. –SH**

 

When John arrives back at the flat that evening, Sherlock is there, as promised. He looks tired, but a bit manic. John sighs with relief and falls into Sherlock’s arms in a lazy hug.

“You tit. I was worried.”

“I just needed time to think.”

“So what’s this surprise, then?”

“It’s in the other bedroom.”

John releases Sherlock and makes his way to the bedroom, and opens the door with trepidation.

As it turns out, the surprise isn’t _in_ the bedroom, it _is_ the bedroom.

It’s been totally transformed into a child’s bedroom. There are reading and numeracy posters on the walls, along with charts and illustrations of various breeds of insects and animals. The shelves are full of books, as they had been before, but new ones. Children’s books, novels, educational workbooks, volumes of parenting books, child psychology and developmental theory.

The bed is John’s favourite part, instantly. The bedsheets have suns and moons and rocketships on them, but they’re hardly visible under the _mountain_ of stuffed toys on the bed. Dogs, cats, dolphins, monkeys, a hedgehog, a robot, a cupcake, and an enormous bumblebee. At the foot of the bed is a toy box painted to look like a pirate’s treasure chest.

It’s Bea’s bedroom.

“John?” Sherlock says gently from a few steps behind him.

“John, you’re crying. Do you like it? Are you happy crying or sad crying?”

John turns to look at Sherlock, only then realising that he has tears rolling down his face.

“It’s wonderful, how did you even do this?”

Sherlock twiddles a piece of shiny black plastic between his fingers and grins mischievously. “Apparently being called Mycroft makes me feel very generous.”

“He won’t mind?” John laughs, wiping his face with his sleeve.

“Oh, no. He’ll be thrilled, he’s always wanted to be an uncle.”

John takes both of Sherlock’s hands in his. His left is shaking like a leaf.

“This is all I wanted, Sherlock. To know you were committed and that you want this too.”

“She'll be my greatest project yet, John. Every skill I have, every scrap I've ever learned, passed on to a brand new mind. She'll be brilliant, our daughter.”

John laughs again, wonders if he’ll ever stop. “You’re going to make her a genius, like you.”

“She doesn’t have to be a detective, of course. I want to give her the skills so that she can be anything she wants. Even normal, and happy. She’ll learn that from you, though.”

“So, the evaluation, you’ll do it?”

Sherlock scoffs. “It’ll be a walk in the park. I’ve convinced psychiatrists of far more far-fetched things than my sanity.”

“Just be yourself.” John says. “They’ll see that you care about her.”

“I think that’s the first time you’ve ever encouraged me to do so.” Sherlock chuckles.

“I suppose it is.” John concedes.

“I did have another idea. Something that might make us more eligible.”

“Oh yeah? What’s that?”

“If we got married.” Sherlock shrugs.

“Ugh, no.” John shakes his head. “I hate weddings. I don’t want Harry pissed on champagne, Mrs Hudson sobbing over us, having to wear a suit, it’d be dreadful.”

“Christ, no.” Sherlock agrees instantly. “We’ll elope, get married in secret. In disguise! No irritating siblings gorging themselves on alcohol or cake, no suits, none of it. Only Bea has to know that it ever happened.”

“This is a pretty shit proposal, Sherlock.”

“I’m a pretty shit boyfriend.”

“Agreed.”

“You agree that I’m a shit boyfriend or you’re agreeing to marry me?”

“Be my shit husband instead.”

“John, I’ll be the most appalling husband the world has ever seen.”

 

 

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The following day, John and Sherlock elope.

Not very far, though. They only elope to the registry office in Marble Arch.

As planned, they both wear eachother’s favourite disguises. Sherlock is a student and part-time barista, clad in a tight tshirt and jeans, his hair artistically messy and sporting a messenger bag and a Starbucks apron. John is in his desert combat uniform, minus a gun or helmet.

“This isn’t actually a disguise,” John points out. “I actually was a soldier, this was my uniform.”

“True.” Sherlock says breezily, slipping on his ugly, fashionable canvas shoes.

He stands up and slides an arm around John, and purrs in his ear. “You look fucking gorgeous, though.” he adds.

John shivers and turns a bit red. “You look about sixteen years old in those clothes.”

“Then you’re a pervert for marrying me.”

 

Getting married in itself is not very exciting. You have to queue up and sign pieces of paper.

“Bit anti-climactic, this.” John observes as he looks over the marriage contract. He does quite like seeing both of their names embossed in large gold print, though. “I didn’t know you don’t have a middle name, Sherlock.”

“I have a middle name. I have four, actually.”

“Really? What are they?”

“Get stuffed.”

“Fair enough. This all look agreeable to you?”

Sherlock nods, pen in hand. “Yes, I think so. Shall we sign?”

John signs the bottom of the paper. So does Sherlock.

“Sold!” Sherlock exclaims happily. “One army doctor, slightly used, to the man in the tight denims.”

They kiss for such a long time that the other people queuing start to tut and clear their throats impatiently.

After that, they spend the rest of the afternoon wandering around London hand in hand, and then have dinner at Angelo’s.

“Don’t tell anyone, but we just got married.” Sherlock tells him quietly. “We’re incognito.”

Angelo beams like his face might split and brings them a bottle of champagne with their dinner. Sherlock is a bit tipsy by the end of it, and spills crème-fraiche down his barista apron laughing at one of John’s awful jokes.

When they get home that evening, they split a bottle of very expensive whiskey and twirl around the living room together, still laughing like idiots. John goes over to the stereo and puts on a David Bowie CD, cranking up the volume. The first track is _Life on Mars_.

“Sherlock,” John slurs. “Dance, dance with me.”

“I suppose it is traditional to dance after one’s wedding.” Sherlock agrees, and puts a hand on John’s waist and grasps John’s left hand in his other.

He guides them in a sort of box-step waltz around the room, now free of the apron and shoes and just in his tshirt and jeans. John has ditched most of the bulky combat gear and is now just in his vest, dog tags and khakis.

“I didn’t know you could dance.”

“Is there life on Mars, John?”

“I don’t think so. There isn’t any air.”

“I see.”

“You’re drunk, Sherlock.”

“An excellent deduction. So are you.”

“Nothing gets past you, eh?”

“Some things do. But don’t tell anyone.”

 

They dance until they can’t stand up any more. When they fall into bed fully dressed, John is still humming,

_We could be heroes_

_Just for one day._

 

0000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000

 

Sherlock attends his psychological evaluation. He claims he’s not sure how it went, they just asked him lots of questions about his emotions. He answered honestly and says it was hard to gauge the examiner’s reactions because there are “no right or wrong answers”, which Sherlock finds infinitely stupid.

Three days later, John comes home to find the wrong Holmes brother sitting in his living room.

“Mycroft.” John says wearily. “How nice to see you.”

Mycroft smiles cordially, and invites John to sit down. In his own house, in his own armchair.

“Good afternoon, Doctor Watson. How are we today?”

John sits down. “I’m just fine. What would you like today? Is it a case for Sherlock and I, or are you just ‘checking in’ on your brother?”

Mycroft laughs drily. “There's no need for suspicion, my brother is rubbing off on you I see. On this occasion I find myself to be the bringer of good news.”

“What kind of news? Good for us, or good for you?”

“Just a little something that found its way onto my desk this morning.” There is a letter in his hand, which he opens and begins to read from. “Dear Inspector Lestrade-”

John rolls his eyes.

“Following my examination of Mr Holmes on the ninth of blah blah blah, ah, here we are. He responded well to emotional stimuli, demonstrated empathy to a satisfactory extent- surely not my brother?”

“He is very much capable of those emotions, let me assure you. So he passed his psych test. Good. Great.” John folds his hands in his lap, feeling uncomfortable. He wants Sherlock to come home. It isn’t right for him to be the last to know that he passed.

“Yes, it would appear so.” Mycroft continues reading. “Therefore in my _professional_ opinion,” he snorts, “I can recommend Mr Holmes to be a fit, sound and responsible guardian to Beatrice, and give my backing to a bid for joint adoption with his partner, as discussed.”

He hands John the letter. “Congratulations, John.”

John takes the letter and leans back in his chair, letting out a sigh. “Thank god.”

“I had an inkling I might be an uncle after receiving a credit card statement in which I apparently bought enough children's items to fill a school.” Mycroft adds primly.

John can’t hide an amused smirk. “Would you like to see what you bought us? Sherlock really outdid himself this time.”

Mycroft’s expression upon seeing Bea’s room is as neutral as he can manage, but he does smile a tiny bit.

“You might do well to just get him a credit card with his own name on it for his birthday or something, and regulate money into it. You’re not very good at hiding your own card.” John suggests from the doorway.

“My brother,” Mycroft sighs, “My brother wouldn't accept my help in a thousand years unless he thought he was stealing it from me.”

He is silent for a moment, and then turns back to face John.

“I understand further congratulations are in order, to a certain soldier and coffee shop worker who recently tied the knot.”

John wonders how much time and money the British Secret Service spends spying on the people in Mycroft’s life.

“We thought it would help our case.” John admits.

“You were never _not_ going to get custody, John.” Mycroft says enigmatically.

“Did you… have something to do with this?”

“Never you mind. Now, off you go, you should find they’re ready to hand little Bea over.”

That’s a yes, if ever he heard one. John has had plenty of practice recognising the delicate omissions of truth that the Holmes brothers are so fond of. Right now, he doesn’t care. His daughter is waiting.

He grabs his coat and his phone, and shouts a thank you to Mycroft over his shoulder as he leaves the flat, running down the stairs two at a time.

**You passed! You passed and we were successful. She’s ours, Bea is legally ours. I’m going to get her now. –JW**

**I’ll meet you there. -SH**


	9. Chapter 9

John arrives first.

Bea is waiting by the front door with a backpack and a small suitcase. She grins at John.

“Katherine says I’m coming to live with you.”

He nods. “Yes. Sherlock’s coming too, and we’re gonna take you home.”

Bea charges and hugs John’s thighs. He bends a little to pick her up in his arms, and his shoulder doesn’t hurt, neither does his leg.

“You’re really nice.” Bea says matter-of-factly.

He jiggles her in his arms and smiles like an idiot, and then slowly turns on the spot with her, still bouncing her up and down. Bea laughs and laughs.

“We got married.” John blurts out, and Bea’s eyes grow wide.

“You did?? Aww, I wanted to come.”

“I’m sorry, Bea. It was a secret wedding, no-one else was there. We got married in disguise.”

“Oh…” she says understandingly. “So you’re… husbands now?”

“Correct.” comes Sherlock’s voice from behind them.

Bea wriggles out of John’s grasp and launches herself at him. He looks a bit taken aback at the hug, but returns it instantly, scooping her up exactly like John had done. It’s instinct, maybe. Bea kisses the tip of Sherlock’s nose and he grins at her.

“We’re your parents now. Does that suit you?”

“Hmm,” she ponders. “Yeah, I think so.”

 

00000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000

 

John wishes he’d recorded Bea’s reaction to her new bedroom. She had gasped in wonder and ‘oooooh’-ed like there were fireworks in the sky.

“It’s so cool! Look at all the friends!” she squeals, and launches herself into the mountain of plush animals on the bed.

“I love it, thank you, thank you, I love it.” she whispers.

John looks forward to reading her every book on the shelf. To helping her put on her school uniform, brush her hair in the mirror. To playing with her for hours on end, John looks forward to watching her grow.

“It’s going to take you a very long time to name them all.” Sherlock says seriously, sitting on the bed next to her, and then giving up a few seconds later and sprawling out lazily. Bea immediately starts burying him in the stuffed toys, piling them on him. Sherlock does not protest or move.

“That looks like a good game.” John chuckles. “Shall I whip us up some lunch?”

“Please can we have sandwiches?” Bea asks.

“You can have a treat today. Do you like pizza? I make really good pizza.”

“Yeah! Pizza!” she whoops, before carefully placing a fluffy panda on Sherlock’s stomach.

 

00000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000

 

While kneading the dough, John eavesdrops some more. It’s become a bit of a habit, he blames being married to a detective with very little understanding of boundaries.

“It’s nice to have you here, Bea.” Sherlock says without preamble.

“I missed you, too.” she responds.

Their conversations have such a simple, honest quality to them, John thinks. It shouldn’t be a surprise that Sherlock is good at communicating with children, he is often childlike himself. Unflinchingly honest unless he is trying to wheedle something he knows he isn’t allowed. Implausibly sweet at the most surprising of moments. Lonely and craving attention, approval.

“I’ve never been anyone’s father before, Bea. I didn’t really have one myself.”

“It’s okay. I’ll teach you.” she offers, plain and generous. She’s never had a father either, but still she is offering to help an adult learn.

“If you're hungry or don't feel well or need my help with something, come and jump on me and pull my hair, alright? You mustn't let me ignore you.” Sherlock insists. John smiles at his floury hands.

Bea giggles. “You have a bad attention.”

“I get too focused on my work and I forget to eat or go to bed. Drives John mad.”

“Because he loves you.”

He hums in agreement.

 

000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000

 

The three of them eat dinner on the sofa in front of the television. Bea force-feeds Sherlock the crusts of her pizza and he eats them with surprisingly little complaint.

“Katherine said I was big enough to go to school this year.” Bea informs them.

“Yes, I suppose you are. We’ll need to get you registered for a school in time for September.” Sherlock agrees.

John knows he already has a school in mind. A perfectly ordinary, government-run, mixed-gender school, like John went to himself. Sherlock has made it very clear by now he absolutely will not send Bea away to boarding school.

She seems happy at the decision. “I wanna make lotsa friends. And be clever.”

“You’ll be clever anyway, you won’t learn a thing from their rubbish curriculum, that’s why I’m going to tutor you. Attending school will be purely to help you develop socially.”

“What do you want to be when you’re older, Bea?” John cuts in.

“A superhero!” she says proudly, and Sherlock rolls his eyes.

“Oh, really?” John chuckles. “What kind of superhero?”

“I dunno,” Bea admits. “I don’t have any powers yet.”

“Batman doesn’t have any powers. Neither does Iron Man.” John suggests.

“But Iron Man is Tony Stark and he’s a genius.”

Sherlock looks irritated beyond words by this conversation. John laughs and pats his thigh.

“Don’t be grumpy.” Bea tells him. “Have some more crusts.” She prods Sherlock in the side of the mouth with another pizza crust.

“I’m not a pigeon.” he protests glumly.

“This piece has pineapple on it. Pigeons don’t get pineapple.”

Sherlock accepts the crust and chews on it louder than necessary.

“There you go,” Bea says, patting him on the head.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all your wonderful comments on this fic.  
> Don't worry, a sequel is already on it's away. I'm not done writing about Bea, not even close.


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